


Not At My Best

by cakeisnotpie



Category: Bourne Legacy (2012), James Bond (Craig movies), James Bond (Movies)
Genre: Bondage, Language, M/M, Torture, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-02
Updated: 2013-02-02
Packaged: 2017-11-27 23:09:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,859
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/667515
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cakeisnotpie/pseuds/cakeisnotpie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It was always chairs. At least this time, the rope they had used was nylon, not quite as abrasive as other types, but the knots were tight and every movement tore at the already broken skin of wrists. His arms were aching from being wrenched behind him, his bum knee – a leftover from that job in Zanzibar – was stiff and throbbing, bent at an odd angle way too long. At least they’d left him with his socks and jeans; the rope around his ankles bit deep but the insulation of the wool protected his skin. For the most part, since their capture earlier that evening, they’d left Aaron alone, unsure of exactly who he worked for and why he was there. The big fish was sitting across from him, tied to another chair, the focus of their attention</p>
            </blockquote>





	Not At My Best

**Author's Note:**

> Uuuhshiny asked:   
> How about James Bond and Clint Barton fic? Not necessarily pairing... Or even better Aaron/James ;))) Could be angst... hostage situation for example... Like some bad guys took them both hostage... (poor bad guys ;) Mmmm... Aaron's hands touched James lips... Light careful touches, just to make sure he is OK, still breathing, still with him... Lips quirked into smile. "Careful, Cross, I may be not in my best but I'm still alive..."

It was always chairs. At least this time, the rope they had used was nylon, not quite as abrasive as other types, but the knots were tight and every movement tore at the already broken skin of wrists. His arms were aching from being wrenched behind him, his bum knee – a leftover from that job in Zanzibar – was stiff and throbbing, bent at an odd angle way too long. At least they’d left him with his socks and jeans; the rope around his ankles bit deep but the insulation of the wool protected his skin. For the most part, since their capture earlier that evening, they’d left Aaron alone, unsure of exactly who he worked for and why he was there. The big fish was sitting across from him, tied to another chair, the focus of their attention

Bond was almost naked, his expensive suit taken from him along with any possible gadgets, leaving nothing but tight white briefs and exposed skin. Two thugs had already worked him over before tying him down, ugly red splotches marking his body where bruises would be in the next few hours. His handsome face was battered, swollen around one eye, blood trailing down from a cut high on his scalp… and that was a strange word that popped into Aaron’s mind because he didn’t trust handsome people. He’d learned early on that the pretty ones were the worst; their taunts and razor sharp words hurt more than blows from fists. Good looks could be a mask for all kinds of evil – he’d seen enough during his time with Outcome to know that for sure. So he shouldn’t use that word at all to describe James Bond, the English agent that had already saved his life once on this clusterfuck of a mission. A better word would be rugged. Or weathered. Like Aaron, Bond had seen a lot, done a lot, had enough regrets to fill his quota of nightmares; he did what was needed, what he was trained for, picked up, and moved on, just like Aaron had learned to do. To survive the current situation and get the job done, avoiding any entanglements.

“Mr. Bond, how delightful to meet you,” Xavier Morton smiled, the kind of grin seen on crocodiles as they cried fake tears just before they ate their victims. “I’m honored, honestly, that my little business warranted your expertise. Quite the mark of importance.”

“Not really,” Bond responded calmly. “Just happened to be in the area. I hear there’s a good Italian place just down the street. I love good manicotti.”

“I deserve a better lie than that, James … I can call you James, can I not?” Morton walked around the chair, facing Aaron. “British and American agents working together? Just what I always wanted. A matched set.” A phone rang and he fished it from his pocket, listening as the person on the end of the line spoke. “That’s everything we need. Good job. Make sure there’s nothing to tie you to the scene before you leave for the rendezvous spot.” He tucked the phone back in his jacket pocket. “Well, James, I’m afraid you’re a day late and a dollar short, as I like to say. Your woman in Sri Lanka just broke and gave us everything. Amazing what creative torture techniques they have today. So, I’m going to leave you in the good hands of my associate here, Britta Cumlately. She’s very eager to meet you. By the time you’re dead, I will be well on my way to remaking the world in my own image.”

“Xavier, dear. Surely I can keep one to play with later?” The woman’s voice was gravelly and low, a smoker’s rumble that should sound sexy but was more menacing. Her black skirt was tight and form fitting, an expensive designer nothing that barely covered the cheeks of her ass, leaving a long expanse of leg bare down to the top of her shiny black shoes, all straps and buckles and sky high heels. White shirt bloused out, tied around her waist, unbuttoned enough to reveal the lacy black fabric that she was using as a bra, despite the fact it was completely ineffective at containing her breasts. Curls tumbled out of the clip in her hair, blonde and shiny. Beautiful … and completely lethal, Aaron’s instincts screamed.

“Kill Bond before you join me. You can bring the American.” With a nod, he left, taking two of the five men with him.

 “Ah, James, I hear you have quite the way with women.” She straddled the British agent, standing over him, hands on his shoulders. “Shall we see if that’s true?” Bending her knees, she lowered herself onto his lap, skirt bunching up around her hips, revealing smooth bare skin, tight muscles of her thighs and ass clenching as she rubbed against him. Her mouth opened and she ground her lips against his, not really a kiss, more of an assault; she bit his lip, drawing blood then licking it off, oblivious to the watching men.

“I’d say I don’t bite,” Bond quipped, “but we both know that’s not true.”

Aaron let the scene unfold; the blatant sexuality didn’t faze Bond at all, his focus never wavering. As she sucked along James’ jawline, her body rolled against him, hips thrusting, little moans escaping as she left marks behind on his skin. Then, their eyes met, and Bond gave him a wink, amusement in the ice blue as her hands roved over his skin, a look that seemed to know Aaron’s interest. Shifting in his seat, watching for his opening, Aaron waited, uncomfortable and slightly aroused. Naked ass and overflowing breasts Bond’s wheelhouse; Aaron was more about killing, necessary and quite effectively, not romancing women.

“Ouch,” Bond complained as she left his earlobe bleeding down the side of his neck. “Now, now, I haven’t told you my safe word yet.”

Glancing over her shoulder, she followed Bond’s gaze to Aaron. “Worried about your little American friend? She stood and walked over; her skirt stayed around her waist as she moved towards him. “He’s handsome, I’ll give you that; I can imagine his head between my thighs quite easily. But I get the feeling he’d rather watch, wouldn’t you, Yank?”  Fingers burrowed into the hair visible between her legs, stroking her own clit; Aaron kept his face impassive, looking past her to see Bond’s slight negative nod – not now – and the intense gaze that raked over him.

“Oh, I see.” She dragged her wet fingers along Aaron’s mouth. “You’d prefer your friend over there to me?” With a wicked laugh, she strode over to her purse lying on a table, unabashed by her disheveled state; the men studiously avoiding looking at her, their fear evident in the set of their shoulders.  The brass knuckles fit her hand, specially made, and she caressed the hard edge of the ridges as she came back to the two men. Without any warning, she slammed her fist into Bond’s face, red specks flying as the metal cut into his cheek.

“I guess foreplay is over?” Bond mumbled through bloody lips. The next blow took him in the chest, jerking his head back, opening another cut along his pectoral muscle.

“You like it rough, James. It’s a shame that you have to die so quickly. I would have loved fucking you while you watched your American friend die. Death is so erotic, orgasmic even.” A gentle, almost loving touch along Bond’s thigh preceded a hard punch to his gut, bending him over as far as his tied arms would allow, his breath forced out by the strength of the hit.

A silent conversation took place between the two men, a plan of action without any words; when she came back to Bond, Aaron tensed his muscles, readying himself. Britta telegraphed her next move; swinging her arm underhanded, she went for Bond’s chin, and Bond moved with explosive energy. He threw the metal chair sideways, landing on his side and whipping the legs towards her feet, but she danced backwards and caught Bond in the side of his head with her foot.

Aaron shifted his weight onto his feet, lifting his chair off the floor, and then rocking backwards, hard, on the slender wooden back legs; they splintered and he went down but rolled up lightning quick. Shaking off the remaining pieces, he body slammed one of the guards to the ground, grabbing the half-raised gun with his hands behind his back, aiming at the others in the room, taking one out with a stray round. It was only a matter of a quick contortion to fold his body through his tied arms, easy enough if you knew how to pull your shoulder out of its socket; Outcome had taught Aaron many useful tricks. With his hands in front of him, he came up firing, just catching the third man before he pulled the trigger, aiming for Bond.

“Son of a bitch!” Britta got a hit in, crunching her fist into Bond’s face as she held him down between her thighs, his head bouncing off the floor. Aaron drew a bead on her, finger resting on the trigger; just as he squeezed, the man on the floor caught his ankle, throwing him off balance, the bullet ricocheting harmlessly. A savage kick to the face stilled the guard; by the time he turned back, Britta was gone and Bond lay unmoving on the floor.

“James,” Aaron slid to a halt on his knees, untying Bond from the chair and turning him onto his back.  The Englishman’s face was a mess of blood, angry red mixing with fast forming black and blue bruises.  Aaron ran a hand over Bond’s brow with the gentlest of touches, down his cheek, thumb grazing Bond’s lips to check if he was breathing; Aaron’s other hand rested on Bond’s neck, feeling for a pulse with his fingertips.

Bond’s lips quirked up into a smile. “Careful, Cross. I’m not at my best, but I am alive.”

“At your worst, you’re still damn annoying.” Aaron sat back on his heels. He splayed his hand on Bond’s chest, testing for tender spots that would indicate internal bleeding or broken ribs, feeling the warmth of the other man’s body beneath his palm. “You’re pretty banged up, but it doesn’t look serious.”

“I’m always serious about a good bang,” Bond coughed, clearing his throat and eased up to a seated position. “I take it our sadistic friend took a rain check on the party.”

“She’ll tell Morton soon enough. We should go.” He rose and began to gather up the men’s guns, taking a shirt off of one of them and a pair of boots for himself.

“Had to get the metal chair.” Bond chuckled as he pulled himself to his feet, favoring his left side. “I guess the threesome is out of the question now.”

“That was never going to happen,” Aaron tossed him some of the men’s clothes.

“Really, now.” Bond watched as Cross moved efficient and contained, intent on his mission. “That’s a damn shame, if you ask me.”


End file.
